Chapter Thirteen #2
The only tattoo I have on my lower back symbolizes something I’ve always felt that I lost. Three roses, two large, one small, nestled in between them.
The family I never had.
“Who is that?” I ask, the question is low, almost reverent, because I sense this means a lot to him.
He pauses, his brow creased, then he shakes his head, as if he will not tell me, so it’s a surprise when he does.
“My dad. If you want to draw me, you need to do it right.”
He doesn’t want me to ask questions about his father, so I honor that. “What do you mean?”
“You can figure it out.”
“Now?”
“Not this,” he waves at the canvas.
Rebel glances around, his eyes landing on a small table where my equipment is laid out. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the neatest of people, but I keep my art supplies clean, I have to, they’re not cheap.
Mesmerized by him being in this space and wondering how in the hell I haven’t jumped him, I let out a surprised gasp when he turns, holding up an Exacto knife that I use for cutting thick board or canvases. The blade is inside the protective cover, but he pops it off and pushes it up.
“What are you doing?” I ask as butterflies swirl around my stomach, a mixture of surprise, desire and anticipation.
He walks toward me and hands me the knife, then holds up his arm, palm down. “Finish the drawing.”
My head shakes in disagreement, but he uses his other hand to clasp my chin so I can’t turn away.
“Cut me.”
My hand trembles as I hold the knife, then his arm, which is steady in front of me. We’re across the room from the table where he set the sketchpad, so I move around him, making his hand drop away from my chin. When he sees me reaching for the pad, he follows me.
“Pass me that box,” I tell him before he moves toward me.
He grabs a solid oak box with a gold clasp and brings it over. It holds some of my most expensive fine brushes. When Rebel sees them, he takes the box back. “Use your fingers,” he says. “If you’re worried, I’m clean.”
Taking a deep breath, I put one hand on his wrist, gripping it and moving his arm closer. Then I draw the knife across his skin, a bead of blood forms, then a line follows the knife as I move it. Rebel hisses but he doesn’t move. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s bleeding enough for what I need.
Our eyes lock as I set the knife aside and press my finger against the cut, harder than is necessary and enough to make him grunt, but he encourages me to continue.
It takes a lot to drag my focus from his face, the way his brows pinch and his teeth drag over his bottom lip.
We both get lost in the moment, nothing else outside of this room matters. I can see the relief behind the pinch of pain. It’s something I know well.
I don’t cut myself to relieve my inner pain, that is not something I’ve ever done. Finding out inflicting pain during sex came about by accident. I’ve only ever met one other person who understood the emotion, the heightened sexual desire that comes with seeing your partner’s blood on their skin.
My breath is shallow as I turn to the drawing. I ran out of the medium the last time I was doing this and wasn’t about to cut myself further. In fact, I’d stopped and pushed the pad away from me, shocked I’d even gone there.
I’ve never painted with my blood before, let alone someone else’s.
After a few tentative strokes, I get into it, seeing where I need to use the red to create shadow. It’s difficult with my fingers where I need more precision, but I get where Rebel is coming from, seeing the swirls and strokes my fingertips make takes this to a higher level.
I’m almost shocked when Rebel puts his palm on the table beside the pad, making it easier for me to replenish when I need it. What makes it difficult to breathe is him moving in close behind me and putting his other palm on the other side of the table, caging me in.
“Fuck,” he groans when I press a little too hard on the cut, squeezing more blood from it. I tilt my head, but I can’t see his face, he’s standing too close.
His head lowers and there is a slight pressure at the side of my head, his breath warms my ear as he runs his nose alongside it, inhaling.
I carry on with the painting as Rebel continues, his nose moving beneath my ear, then his teeth nip my earlobe and my eyes sweep shut.
“Careful,” he murmurs. I look down and see a smear across the drawing that shouldn’t be there.
“I can fix it,” I say.
“Can you?”
He takes my hand and moves it to his arm, using our combined fingers to squeeze more blood out. The cut is coagulating, the blood thickening too much to be usable for this purpose.
“Want to cut me again?” he asks.
I shake my head as he picks up the knife that I set down beside the pad earlier.
“Want me to cut you?”
I suck in a breath and my lower stomach clenches. A steady beat is pulsing between my legs, the dampness growing. My head falls back against his collarbone, and he licks my neck.
Then a sharp pain makes my back arch. Rebel bands an arm around my waist to hold me against him as he nicks my skin with the knife.
It’s not as deep as when I cut him, and just a small drop of blood blooms on my skin. He swipes it with his fingertip, then hovers it over the paper. Understanding what he wants, I put my smaller hand over the top of his and guide it, lowering his finger just beneath the lips on the picture.
Together, we shade the area to make his chin and jawline stand out.
I can’t stand this anymore. If he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to lose my mind. As if he can read what I’m thinking, he pulls his arm away and both hands grip my hips, pulling me back against the length of his body, the hardness of his cock makes me whimper and grind my ass against him.
“Jesus Christ.”
He moves back and spins me around, lifting me in one swift move and setting me down, only just avoiding the knife. He brushes it away, but not so far that he can’t reach it.
That sends another thrill through me I try hard not to show. Rebel grips my chin and tilts my head to look at him. Is this going to be another quick and meaningless fuck?
As we stare, I get the sense this isn’t the same as last time, for either of us.
Before I can second-guess myself, I move upwards and press my mouth hard against his. Rebel doesn’t even pause, opening his mouth over mine and thrusting his tongue inside. I glide my hands over his biceps and down to his forearm, making him groan as I press my thumb into the cut.
He drags his arm away and grabs my shirt, then pulls so hard it tears straight down the middle. He has to have some serious strength to do that, but I can feel it radiating off him, the desire and need.
His lips trail down my chin and neck, over the hollow of my throat, and I reach back to unclasp my bra.
He drags it away, his mouth already closing over a nipple before I’ve even let it slip down my arms.
“Oh god,” I fall backwards, but he wraps his arm around me again and holds me close, scraping his teeth across my nipple and grabbing my hair, tugging it so my head tilts back.
“Fuck, I need inside you,” he moves back and grabs my sweatpants, dragging them down hard enough that I almost slide off the table, but he steadies me and steps back between my thighs.
Not wanting to just sit here and let him take control, I reach beside me and take the knife.
Rebel pauses when he sees me bringing it between us. He’s breathing just as hard as I am, but neither one of us moves for a moment. He doesn’t know what I intend to do, but he will not stop me.
Without looking, I glide the blunt side of the knife along my hip and under the fabric of my panties.
He watches as I twist it and slice through the fabric and nick the skin where my hip meets my thigh.
Rebel takes the knife and tosses it behind us, it clatters across the wooden floor as he drops to his knees and pulls my panties out of the way.
Before I have time to ask him why he did that, we might need it again, he’s pressed his thumbs on either side of my pussy and is dragging it open enough for him to thrust his tongue into me.
I cry out and fall back on my elbows as he lifts my thighs and throws them over his shoulders. His finger trails through the blood, and I tilt my head up, watching as he draws circles on my abdomen with it.
His eyes are on mine as his tongue works, moving between my clit and dipping in and out of me. His nose bumps up against my pubic bone as he drags me closer.
I fight to get away from him while wrapping my thighs tighter around his neck, craving the press of his thumb against the wound and his tongue as it strokes and licks, teeth scraping and biting.
How do we understand each other so well? How is it possible I’ve met someone who craves the same things as me? And why does it have to be him?
My eyes stay closed as Rebel stands back and pulls his jeans open.
With one quick thrust he’s inside me, and this time I can’t help but cry out, far too loudly.
I don’t care because he is inside me and I can feel every solid, hard inch of him as he thrusts in and out, holding my hip and pressing his other hand down on my pubic bone, smearing the patterns he made.
This is fucked up, but neither one of us wants it to stop, even as the table thumps against the wall with every single thrust.
I spare a thought for what or who might be on the other side of the wall, but he fucks away any concern, rocking into me so hard my brain can’t focus on anything else.
Rebel leans over me, staring into my eyes. He almost says something, but whatever it was dies on his tongue as he kisses me again, trapping the words he was going to say between our battling tongues.